Our Woman in Moscow

by Beatriz Williams

  I then slipped into a profound and dreamless sleep, so that my present jarred wakefulness makes me feel as if I’ve been propelled into a new universe. At first, I’m conscious only of the faint electricity of the intruder, the way you sense the presence of a living creature even if you can’t see or hear or smell it. I called out to Fox out of instinct, just now, not because I remembered he was there.

  I regret it instantly.

  Now the spook knows we’re awake.

  A few feet away, Fox moves his arm, inch by inch. The mattress stirs delicately. I wonder what the hell he means to do. Launch himself into the dark? I can’t see anything but shadows and the faint light of the streetlamps outside the window through the crack between the curtains.

  The room is so quiet, I hear the sheets move as I breathe. Fox feels fluid next to me, sliding too smoothly for sound, muscles coiling, cat ready to pounce. Don’t do it, I think. He’ll go away in a while.

  Unless he won’t.

  The blood rushes in my ears. My eyes ache from not blinking. I’m afraid to blink—I’m afraid to move—to distract Fox—to attract attention—

  A shadow streaks across the room. I shoot up in time to hear an oomph, a crash, a cry—the cry’s mine—I jump out of bed and grab the lamp, yank it from the socket—a horrifying crunch of flesh and bone—thump thump thump as somebody bolts into the living room, thump thump thump as somebody chases him.

  I run after them and scrabble along the wall for the switch. Find it, flip it on. Bright light fills the room, illuminating the dark-haired man who throws open the door and staggers out into the hallway. Fox dives after him. I dive after Fox.

  “Don’t! Stop!”

  He whirls on me. His pale eyes blaze with something I can only call bloodlust—beyond fury or fight or hate—just the desire to destroy whatever it was that threatened us. I fall back a step and the flame dies in an instant. Blood trickles from a small cut on his cheekbone.

  “What was that?” I gasp.

  “Just a watcher, I think. Checking on us.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that wasn’t what I meant, but he’s already turned away to close and lock the door—as if that will make any difference—so I walk to the bathroom instead and run a washcloth under the faucet. When I return, Fox stands with his hands braced against the door and his eyes shut tight.

  “Turn around,” I say.

  He turns. I wash the cut gently while he sets his hands on his hips and stares at the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “You shouldn’t have come to Moscow. On our own like this.”

  “Of course I should. I’m not a child.” I put down my hand with the washcloth and stare at his chin, which contains a tiny dimple, so small you almost don’t see it unless you’re up close. He looks down at me over the ridge of his cheekbones, wary, and comprehension comes upon me like the beam of a searchlight, smack between the eyes. “Christ Almighty,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head and lays his finger over my mouth. I pluck it off and wheel around. I’m too angry to look at him. My skin scintillates with fury.

  “Ruth!” he calls softly after me.

  “Go to hell!”

  I stride back into the bedroom and slam the door behind me. Between the curtains, a smudge of dawn colors the air. I plug the lamp back into the wall and turn it on. No point in going back to sleep. I pull my suitcase from the top of the armoire and yank my dresses from their hangers.

  The door opens.

  “I wish I could explain,” Fox says.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got all kinds of pretty explanations ready. What I want to know is how long were you going to keep all this from me? How long before you told me the whole story about yourself?”

  “Ruth, for God’s sake. Keep your voice down!”

  “I don’t care who’s listening! Hello? Hello?” I cup my hands around my mouth and shout to the framed landscape above the bed. “We’re having an argument, all right? Just like any married couple! Because you’ll never guess! I married a dirty low-down lying bastard! He told me he had a job, a real job with a paycheck, and it turns out he quit! He’s in business for himself!”

  Fox takes me by the shoulders and turns me around—not rough, I’ll give him that, but firm enough to hold me in place in front of him so he can say his piece, in a low, calm voice that only makes me madder. “Ruth, listen to me. I’ll make it up to you. I’ve got—I’ve got money you don’t know about. We’ll be all right, okay? I’ve got things lined up, people lined up, as soon as we’re out of Moscow.”

  I throw up my hands. “That’s what they all say. Oh, my luck’s about to turn, I’ve got it all planned out, our ship will come in! Well, I’ll tell you what, buster. Until I see that sail coming into harbor, I’m not counting on a red cent from you. Not a red cent.”

  “Fine, then!”

  “Yes, fine!”

  We stand there panting at each other. The cut on his cheekbone has begun to bleed again. I pick up the evening gown I wore to the Bolshoi and blot away the blood. The sunrise blossoms behind the window. I want to cry at the pinks and golds.

  “I promise you, everything will work out,” Fox says. “This outfit I’m working with, they know what they’re doing.”

  “Oh, they do, do they?”

  “Honest to God.”

  “Then I guess you’d better start praying right now, Mr. Fox, because if they don’t? You and I are splitsville.”

  The worst thing is, I can’t even ask him the real story. Silently we pack our suitcases and wait for six o’clock, when we can call down and order coffee. I like to think they can’t possibly doubt we’re really married now, a fight like that.

  The coffee arrives, hot and strong. I smoke cigarette after cigarette. Fox opens a window and I come to stand next to him, so our words float straight out into the cool summer morning.

  “So how long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I prop myself on the windowsill and stick my head out. Fox joins me, a little awkwardly, because his shoulders are almost too wide to fit.

  I speak softly. “This business of yours. When did you set it up?”

  For some time he leans there silent next to me, heads stuck side by side into the open air. Kremlin across the street. Noise of traffic down below. Truth lies somewhere between us. Will he give it to me?

  He turns his mouth to my ear and speaks in an intimate murmur, the way a lover would. “When I got out of the hospital, after the war. Hoover called me in. The Bureau was decrypting Russian diplomatic telegrams and he’d come to realize they had a high-level leak. Who or where, he couldn’t tell. Needed someone to work on his own, outside the agency. Someone who’d spent the last few years in a prison camp on the other side of the world. Told me he wanted us to get an agent in Moscow, right in the heart, root out all the names. Gave me whatever resources I needed.”

  I absorb all this along with his warm breath on the side of my face, my neck. Turn my own mouth to his ear.

  “Well? Did you find the leak?”

  “A lot more than that. But not the man at the top. Not the last name we needed. And a little over a year ago, our Moscow agent dropped all communication. We were sick with worry. Then finally we got a signal. The extraction signal.”

  “And here we are. That’s why we’re here. To bring your agent home.”

  Fox lowers himself on his elbows and gazes down at the sleepy street below. The rising sun makes his hair sparkle. Bathes the red spires of the Kremlin across the street. I lower myself next to him so our forearms lie against each other. Right hand holds the cigarette, smoke drifting into the delicate light. Fox takes my left hand and squeezes it.

  Trust me, he says.

  Iris

  September 1948

  London

  Iris took a taxi to the American embassy in Grosvenor Square and gave her name to the receptionist in the lobby. “Mrs. Digby to see Mr. Wes
t, please,” she said, dignified yet friendly.

  The receptionist’s eyes went round. She lifted the receiver of her telephone. A hushed, hurried conversation took place, and when the receptionist looked up again, Iris could’ve sworn she was forcing back a smile.

  “You may go straight up, Mrs. Digby. Fourth floor.”

  Mr. West stood up hastily when Iris entered his office. He brushed some crumbs from his tie and held out his hand. “Mrs. Digby. It’s been some time. Welcome.”

  “Mr. West. Yes, I’ve been spending the summer in the countryside. Dorset.”

  “Do sit.”

  “Thank you. I expect you know why I’ve come to see you.”

  He sighed and took his seat. “Yes, this silly affair of Digby’s. How is he?”

  “Sleeping it off. As I’m sure you know, he’s been under tremendous strain lately.”

  “Indeed he has. We’re well aware of the toll the service takes, Mrs. Digby, particularly for a man as able and as hardworking as your husband. I confess, I am very fond of Mr. Digby. He’s just the kind of man we need here at the embassy, and under ordinary circumstances, we do look the other way when—incidents of this nature occur. We give the man some leave, a rest cure in the mountains, perhaps.” Mr. West glanced down at the papers before him. “And your husband’s service has been exceptional. Honestly, I can’t think why he wasn’t given some sort of leave after his last assignment. His work during the war was extraordinary, extraordinary. A man wouldn’t be human if he didn’t crack up a bit, after a time like that. We quite understand, Mrs. Digby.”

  “But?”

  Mr. West steepled his fingers over the papers. “But. The girl’s the trouble, you see. She’s making a real fuss. She’s gone to the papers—we’ve had to pull every string. Every string. The kind of strings we like to keep in reserve, you might say, for incidents of a more diplomatic nature.”

  “I see. I don’t suppose you could give me the name of this girl? Her address? I don’t mean her any harm,” Iris added quickly. “Not at all. I sympathize with her entirely. In fact, I thought perhaps a woman’s touch might help, in this case. I can convey my deepest apology, maybe explain the situation, gain her sympathy for what Sasha’s been through—”

  He frowned. “This is really quite irregular. Under ordinary circumstances—”

  “These are hardly ordinary circumstances, Mr. West.” Iris smiled and made her eyes grow. “I promise you, a woman’s touch is exactly what’s needed here. I can accomplish things in half an hour that all your diplomats couldn’t manage in a week.”

  “I daresay.” He sat back in his chair and appraised her. “You understand, officially speaking, my hands are tied.”

  “But unofficially?”

  Mr. West reached for a pen, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to Iris.

  “Unofficially—Godspeed, Mrs. Digby.”

  Guy Burgess waited for her outside on a bench. He was eating something from a small tin, which he tossed in a trash bin when he saw her. Stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, made a courtly bow.

  “I ought to slap you,” she said, when she reached him.

  “I protest. I’ve been your guardian angel. Sasha’s, anyway. How is the old boy? Awake yet?”

  “Was. I cleaned him up and put him back to bed in fresh pajamas. Just what the hell were you two doing last night?”

  He made a motion with his hand. “Shall we?”

  “Ten minutes, then I have to return home. I’m expecting a guest.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  She hesitated, but there hardly seemed any point in holding back. “Philip Beauchamp. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Ah. Won’t Sasha be pleased.”

  “What have you got to say to me, Mr. Burgess? Some new escapade I haven’t heard about?”

  “No, I believe I’ve sworn off your husband, for the time being. He gets me into the most awful trouble.”

  “I’d say it’s the other way around.” Iris stopped to cross Oxford Street, taking care to look right instead of left. “It’s about Nedda Fischer, isn’t it? Somebody killed her.”

  “Nedda Fischer? Yes, terribly sad business. Awful show. On the streets of London, no less. One simply isn’t safe.”

  “Oh, don’t play games with me, Mr. Burgess. I don’t have the time or the patience. I’m an American, remember? We like to play straight. Lay our cards on the table. I know what Sasha was up to, and I know what Nedda Fischer was to him, and I imagine you know, too.”

  “Haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No, of course not. You know nothing about nothing. You just happened by Grosvenor Square at the exact moment I wandered out of the US embassy.”

  “Careful!” Burgess stuck out his hand just in time to prevent her stepping off the curb in front of a taxi. Iris took a deep breath while the taxi passed. They crossed the street and Burgess took her arm. “Let’s step into Selfridges for a moment, shall we?”

  “I said ten minutes—”

  Already he was steering her through the revolving doors and into the department store, around the counters with their sparse selections of cosmetics and scarves and haberdashery—clothing still rationed—glancing every so often in a mirror. Iris protested at an escalator, but she couldn’t make a fuss, could she? They swept off the top of the escalator and plunged into Gentlemen’s Furnishings. Iris thought they could hardly have been more conspicuous.

  “What I think,” Burgess said softly, examining a silk necktie, “is that poor old Digby needs a little holiday, somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can’t be found. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand my husband’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, if he’s not there already. No thanks to you, I might add.”

  “Well, that’s a matter of opinion, my dear. What do you think of this necktie?”

  “Garish. Look, I really don’t require your advice on the matter of my husband. I’m going to check him into a drying-out hospital of some kind, as soon as possible, and I’d very much appreciate you and your little friends staying as far away from him as possible. Good day, Mr. Burgess.”

  She started to turn away, but he snared her wrist under the edge of the counter. “And here I thought you were a nice little mouse,” he said caressingly.

  “Maybe your judgment isn’t as sound as you think.”

  “Just remember to keep your mouth shut about all this, all right? You don’t want your husband to end up like poor old Nedda. Do you understand me? That new lover of yours, especially. No pillow talk.”

  The funny thing about Burgess, he was really rather handsome beneath the bloat and the livery color. Iris imagined that when he was younger—at university, maybe—he was really attractive. Though the whites of his eyes had yellowed to ecru, they were alive with brains and charm—a man who might have been somebody.

  “I understand perfectly,” she replied.

  “Excellent.” He released her wrist and held up another necktie. “Too green?”

  “Too shiny.”

  Iris turned and walked out of Gentlemen’s Furnishings, down the escalator and out the revolving door to the busy street, where she hailed a taxi to take her home.

  But when she climbed inside, the cab wasn’t empty. A man in a dark suit and fedora sat on the other end of the seat, newspaper folded on his lap. He took off his hat and said, in a distinct courtly American accent, “Hello, Mrs. Digby. I don’t know if you remember me, but I gave you my card at a party not long ago. Sumner Fox.”

  Naturally Iris reached for the door handle, but it was locked. The taxi moved off down Oxford Street toward Marble Arch. Iris turned to Mr. Fox and said recklessly, “Would you mind telling me what the hell’s going on? Are you trying to kidnap me?”

  “Not at all. Just seeing you safely back to Oakwood Court. London seems to have become a little more dangerous over the past twenty-four hours.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”


  Fox looked at his watch and looked out the taxi window. He leaned forward and rapped on the glass separation; the driver opened the window and they exchanged a few words Iris couldn’t hear. He sat back in his seat and said, in a kind voice, “Mrs. Digby, I work for a counterintelligence bureau of the US government. You know what that means?”

  “Of course I do. You look for spies.”

  “In a nutshell. Now, I know you’ve been living overseas for some time, but I’m thinking you might perhaps have heard of what’s going on in Washington right now? The hearings and whatnot?”

  “I’ve heard something about it, yes.”

  “Earlier this summer, a woman named Elizabeth Bentley testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Miss Bentley, if you haven’t heard, used to run a network of intelligence agents on behalf of the Soviet Union.”

  “Yes, I know all that. I can’t think why you’ve kidnapped a perfect stranger in a London taxi to bring her up to date on all the stateside news. Unless you think I’m connected to this woman in some way? A housewife who hasn’t spent more than two months in America since the war started?”

  Fox made a reflective noise. Iris thought this was the moment he’d take a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and light one up, but he didn’t. He fiddled with the hat on his knee and said, in his beautiful baritone drawl, “Miss Bentley first contacted authorities in November of 1945. Couple of months before that, a cipher clerk operating under illegal cover in the Soviet embassy in Ottowa put himself under the protection of Canadian officials and provided us with a great deal of additional information. As you know, agents are run under code names to protect their true identities. So it takes some legwork, you see, some investigation to follow all the clues and identify the possible suspects.”